Molten Gold
by Miss Mungoe
Summary: Major General Armstrong's hair has long been a favoured topic of discussion at Fort Briggs. – Olivier/Buccaneer.


AN: Olivier/Buccaneer, rated T for shenanigans of the adult kind. Set before the start of Brotherhood, and could be read as a companion-fic to Winter Heart (but this is all fun and games, I _swear_).

Disclaimer: Fullmetal Alchemist and its characters belong to Hiromu Arakawa; I own nothing.

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**Molten Gold**

by Miss Mungoe

It was an indisputably popular topic amongst the men, but the covetous whispers were only voiced aloud when the coast was decreed abundantly clear and there was no sight nor sound of General Armstrong on the level immediately above or below in the Fort from where the conversation took place. For as hard-boiled and tough-as-nails as the Briggs soldiers were notorious for being, they wouldn't be caught dead letting it slip that their favoured topic of conversation was the Major General's _hair_.

Of course, that didn't dispel the fact that it _was_ their favoured topic of conversation, but if the General ever caught wind of it they'd no doubt be choked to death with the blonde locks in question, or have their own hair cut off for their deliberate wantonness. She made an active point of dissolving any concept of gender amongst the ranks, but damn it all if she didn't make it difficult with a mane like _that, _swaying in her wake wherever she set foot, like golden fire beckoning to frostbitten fingers.

_It's the Armstrong genes_, the word went. Corn-silk hair and eyes blue like the Northern skies – waxing poetics for rough Briggs soldiers, perhaps, but cold months spent on end with only each other for company would make a damn bard of just about anyone. And the Major General was nothing if not a fitting Muse. There was no secret the soldiers of Briggs were fiercely loyal to and in general awe of their Queen, but monolithic force or not, they were hot-blooded human beings and their leading lady was striking in every sense of the word. And her hair was, if she intended it to be so or not, one of her most significant physical features.

_Do you think it's very soft?_

_Are you kidding? You've __seen__ it, right? _

_Anyone who's not blind has seen it, you oaf. What I want to know is have you __**felt**__ it?_

_Hell naw! I'm still alive, ain't I? How the hell would I get to do that and live to talk about it?_

_I almost brushed against it, once. Mind, I was wearing gloves, but __damn__..._

And on it went. The speculations circled around familiar questions, often along the lines of 'who do you think she'd let touch it' to 'do you think she'd even go for someone below her in rank' to 'do you think she, y'know, plays for the _other_ team' (which was often followed by 'I bet Doc's touched it', which prompted a whole different sort of conversation that would have seen them all strung up by their ankles along the side of the Wall if she'd heard). Then there would always be the one soldier speaking up, reminding the rest that this was their commanding officer, their beloved Queen, and as proud Briggs soldiers they should be ashamed for brazenly glorifying their honoured Lady's hair in such a manner.

Even if it was spun gold trailing in her wake like a lion's splendid mane.

But no matter the line of talk, the conversation always seemed to circle back to the same conclusion, which was the ever simple truth that whoever was given explicit permission to touch the Major General's hair was a _damn_ lucky sod.

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"You ever thought of cutting it?"

Threading his fingers through the thick mass, Buccaneer watched it glimmer against the dark automail, like precious gold amidst simple lead, and slipping over the prosthetic fingers like liquid. He resisted the urge to snort. _Waxing poetics, no shit. _It was enough to make a grown man silly in the head.

For her part, the General simply snorted into her pillow, but made no attempt to tug her hair out of his grip. "No. Why?"

He paused, the words at the tip of his tongue, but his eyes were on the sword propped innocently by the nightstand. He wouldn't be fooled by the drowsiness that seemed to linger along the lines of her pale shoulders – she'd reach it before he'd had a chance to so much as blink. He hadn't served under her for so many years without picking up on the things that set her off, and he knew a verbal pitfall when he saw one. But at the same time, a remark might be one man's grave and another's goldmine. It all depended on the timing, really, and whether or not she was in a good mood.

In the end, he figured bold was the way to go, and so, "It's very...feminine."

The pause that followed that admission was long like the Northern winter, but ultimately she simply cracked one blue eye open to look up at him. Then she smirked. "Are you harbouring any doubts of my being a woman, Captain?" she purred, and he swore she shifted provocatively just to prove her point, the damn minx.

He snorted. "You don't like being reminded of it," he pointed out gruffly, and tried not to let his eyes linger on the curve sloping from her torso to her hip, hidden only partway beneath the sheet. _Although it's damn hard to forget, sometimes. _

"I'm a General first, if that's what you're implying," she retorted smoothly as she stretched like a cat, the sheet riding further down, and there was no avoiding it _now,_ but the clever smile curling along her mouth assured him he wasn't about to meet his maker at the end of her blade. She ran a hand through her long forelock, twining the sleep-tousled strands around one finger, and his mouth went pleasantly dry. "It's a vanity issue," she said with a shrug. "And a point of pride. I'm an Armstrong, as you well know."

He snorted. "I've seen your brother," he quipped. "Did he not get the memo?"

A slim leg sharp like a blade against his side had him wheezing out the remains of his laughter. "That's rich coming from you, _Mohawk._"

He grinned. "Hey, if there's anyone in Briggs with hair to challenge _yours–"_ Deft fingers tugging at the cord holding his braid together had it unravelling, the strands spilling over his shoulders even before the last word was out of his mouth. "–_Oye_!"

Her smile was a cat's clever grin in the dim lamplight. "All's fair, Captain," she said simply, and this time it was her fingers winding through his hair, and he marvelled a moment at the near dainty quality to her hands. It was a rare sight to see them devoid of her usual gloves, and even rarer still to see them not curled around the handle of her sword. But he wisely kept his thoughts to himself this time. _Hah. 'Dainty' would cost me my other arm. _

So instead he grumbled, "Do you have any idea how long it's gonna take to braid this again?"

She hummed under her breath. "Have you ever thought of cutting it?"

He grinned. "Touché, sir."

"Just be glad it's verbal, Captain," she retorted smoothly, eyes glinting like ice beneath the cover of gold. She curled a dark lock lazily around one slim finger, and he watched, surprised at the odd show of domesticity. She wasn't usually one for lingering after the act, but there were times when she'd stretch out with the clear intention of staying put. In rare moments she'd succumb to sleep, and in their many years at Briggs it was the single most trusting gesture she'd ever granted him. Not that he'd ever say, for some things were better left unspoken with the General. Similarly, he'd never once questioned if she ever had trouble sleeping, but knew there was a price on her head the size of Drachma itself and that if any spy ever made it into the Fort there'd surely be one thought on their mind. He wondered idly if the thought ever kept her up at night, which further prompted the question if that was perhaps the reason she chose to sleep in his bed more often than not, for some undisturbed hours in reliable company.

But her intentions not-withstanding, the fact that she trusted him enough to leave herself completely unguarded left an odd sort of privileged feeling in its wake, the same as with the fact that he was, as far as he was aware, the only one granted the honour of touching her hair.

"Eyes up front, Captain," came the drawl, and he realized he'd drifted somewhere into his own mind whilst blatantly staring in the direction of her partially exposed chest. She smirked. "I asked if you would like me to braid it."

Of all the things he'd never thought he'd hear from the Northern Wall of Briggs, _that_ had to top the list, but there was a good humoured twinkle in her sharp eyes that spoke of a levity she rarely allowed herself the pleasure of indulging in.

But he knew his commanding officer, and wasn't so easily fooled. He snorted. "You'd sooner cut it all off," he accused.

Her grin was decidedly wicked. "Oh, I don't know about that."

"I ain't taking my chances," he grumbled as he tugged it out of her grip, but it was difficult upholding any kind of severity when she was looking at him like _that._ The strands slipped out of her grip, but she curled her fingers around it stubbornly and _tugged_, the force of which would have left a lesser man howling. But they were far from gentle people, and her rough handling only served to make it all the more difficult to keep his eyes from wandering along the slanting curves and defined muscles. For her deceptively slight stature, she packed a harder punch than should be rightly possible, but he only grinned as she wound the strands of his loose hair around her knuckles like a whip. The slowly simmering irritation at his rare show of fortitude in response to her charms glimmered in her eyes like sparks, and when she tugged next her nose was inches from his and the blue of her eyes endless like the open sky over Briggs.

"You don't need explicit permission for _everything,_ soldier," she growled then, but he refrained from glibly pointing out how much that sounded like an order, and instead let her pull him down.

"Aye, ma'am," he retorted cheekily, mismatched hands delving into the mass of her hair as her mouth found his in a hard kiss, unduly pleased at the small but profound allowance, and spared a thought for his fellow soldiers cold in the barracks and dreaming of long golden locks whose softness surpassed the limits of human imagination. Curling a rough fist into the hair at her neck, he grinned a wicked grin against her mouth. _Nope. Fantasy's got nothing on the real thing, _but if it made the long winter days a little less cold, he would not be the one to deprive them of their silly daydreams.

But the Lord have mercy on the fools who let their tongues wag loose around the General.

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AN: What is even serious fic.


End file.
